


Four times Dean was interrupted while getting off (and one time he wasn't); Or: Five times Dean said Sam's name during sex

by merle_p



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Multi, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-03-11
Updated: 2008-03-11
Packaged: 2017-10-07 10:52:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/64445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merle_p/pseuds/merle_p
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Somehow, Sam is always around when Dean has sex – one way or the other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Four times Dean was interrupted while getting off (and one time he wasn't); Or: Five times Dean said Sam's name during sex

**Author's Note:**

> Written March 2008.  
> I don't own Supernatural, nor do I own Sam or Dean. I do own the original characters in this story, though; but I'd trade them off for Sam and Dean anytime.  
> This was written for the [](http://community.livejournal.com/dontbendthatway/profile)[**dontbendthatway**](http://community.livejournal.com/dontbendthatway/) Challenge. The prompt was: _"Sam, Dean or both. Have sex with somebody while thinking/fantasizing about someone else. Extra points if you can make it believable that they'd actually scream out the wrong name while coming."_

**I.**

The year Dean turns fourteen, they stay for two months in a house in Pine Bluff, Arkansas. Down the street live the Rogers', and Sheila Rogers is sixteen, experienced and determined to introduce as many innocent boys to the pleasures of sex as possible. The day the Winchesters move into the ramshackle hut they are going to spend the next weeks in, she decides that Dean will be the next on her list, and Dean doesn't need much convincing.

John is gone most of the time, leaving the boys alone for days, and so Dean tucks Sam in at night and makes sure that he's fast asleep before he lets Sheila in to get it on with her on the cot in his shabby little room.

One night, she's got him flat on his back, riding him, and he's so busy trying not to come then and there like the nervous teenager he actually is, that he doesn't realize something is wrong until Sheila stops moving, tilts her head and says: "Looks like we've got company."

Dean struggles to turn his head, and he sees Sammy standing in the door to the bedroom, in his worn out, too big pajamas, wide-eyed and pale, looking like he's seen a ghost.

"Hey there, sweetie. You alright?" Sheila says, smile in her voice, apparently not in the least troubled by the interruption, and Sam flinches and retreats, slamming the door behind him.

"Sammy," Dean shouts, and tries to work his way out from underneath the girl, because obviously Sam isn't alright at all. Sheila is not offended when he all but throws her out of the house. She seems to think they are kind of cute, and Dean is too preoccupied to even care.

He finds Sam curled up in his bed, facing the wall, and sits down on the edge, running his fingers along Sam's spine. Sam finally turns around to look at him, worrying his lower lip between his teeth, and he reminds Dean of the stray kitten they saved from drowning in Michigan last year, tousled and miserable.

"Don't you like me anymore?" he asks feebly, and Dean frowns. He expected Sam to be confused – seeing that Dad taught his youngest how to handle a gun, but has postponed _The Talk_ again and again – but this? He doesn't know where that comes from.

"Are you going to let her sleep in your bed?"

To Dean's dismay, there are tears in Sammy's eyes, but he waits, still unsure where this is going. Then Sam struggles to sit up and wraps his skinny arms around him, burying his face against Dean's neck, leaving a trail of snot and tears.

"But you can't," he chokes. "_I'm_ sleeping in your bed."

Dean stiffens, and is about to pry Sam's arms loose from his neck. Is about to tell him that it's not the same, that occasionally letting Sam sleep in his bed doesn't mean they have what Dean has with Sheila – which is nothing, really, honestly – and that Sam is getting too old for that kind of stuff, anyway.

Dean suspects, though, that Sam might not be sufficiently socialized to get the difference - or maybe just too upset right now – and he looks so young and miserable that Dean just hasn't the heart to tell him off.

"Scoot over", he says instead, climbing in next to his brother, pulling the covers over them both. It's a bit awkward, because Sam is still clinging to him, but Dean doesn't protest.

They leave town a week later, and Dean doesn't see Sheila again.

 

**II.**

When Sam leaves for Stanford, John stops talking about him from one day to the next. He acts as if his other son never existed, and whenever Dean tries to bring him up, he changes the subject or just walks out of the room.

And Dean feels like he's suffocating, like he's choking on the things he needs to say, because Sam may have left, but he's still everywhere.

It's not as if Sam had a lot of possessions in the first place, but even what he had didn't fit into the duffel bag he took with him. The rest of his belongings, he left for Dean to find.

Sam's threadbare sweater turns up between Dean's shirts, smelling faintly of sweat and soap when Dean pulls it over his head. An old paperback is stuck under the car's passenger seat, the corners of the pages filled with Sam's scribbling. Dean finds Sam's toothbrush in his toilet bag, and 4 Non Blondes between Metallica and Led Zeppelin in the Impala's glove compartment.

There is just no escaping.

When it finally becomes too much, Dean locks himself in the bathroom of their crappy motel room in Memphis, Tennessee, and climbs into the shower to jerk off. His grip is hard, almost painful, his rhythm frantic, unsteady. In his mind's eye, images of Sam are tumbling over each other – Sam after their last hunt, flushed and disheveled, sweat making the fine hair in his neck curl even more than usual; Sam on his 16th birthday, totally wasted after the two beers Dean let him have, giggling breathlessly about Dean's silly jokes; Sam's toothless grin after the loss of his baby teeth, ice cream smeared all over his lips and nose; little Sam standing upright for the first time, chubby fingers gripping Dean's tightly for support – and then Dean moans "Sammy", helplessly, his head hitting the wall behind him, come squirting over his fingers and dripping down on the bottom of the tub.

The water is turning cold, and he's shaking, slumping down against the wall, and then there is a knock on the door, and John's voice on the other side: "Hey son, you okay in there?"

Dean freezes and then scrambles to his feet, almost slips on the wet tiles, praying that his father just wants to use the bathroom.

If John heard anything, he doesn't say, but after that day, Dean doesn't touch his cock for a while.

 

**III.**

 

In all the months since he picked Sam up in Stanford, Dean's had sex exactly thrice. Which is not actually a problem per se – contrary to what Sam might think about him, sex is not even in the Top Five of Dean's favorite spare time activities. Besides, it's not as if he can just take someone back to the motel room anymore, and most of the time, there are more important things to think about anyway.

To be honest, the central issue with being around Sam 24/7 is not that it means having little to no sex – it's that Sam's presence makes him think of it all the time in the first place.

So when the visible reminders of their run-in with Meg in Chicago have healed up, and when Tanja, their slightly slutty bartender in Elizabeth, New Jersey, bats her eyelashes at him, he goes home with her without even looking at Sam, not wanting to see the pinched face, the reproachful look.

Tanja's apartment is like herself: up-front and a tad too voluptuous, but her bed is big, the sheets clean and she doesn't hesitate to spread her legs. He licks her cunt, even if it's sloppily shaven and stubbly, and then kisses her long and wet to get rid of the taste. She's tight when he slips into her, and he wonders if she does Pilates, because there is this thing where she clenches her pelvic floor muscles, which does awesome things to his cock.

She's hot in a dirty way, moaning like a porn star and arching under him, and he's close, really close, when his cell phone plays the first notes of _I'm not a girl, not yet a woman_.

"Sam," he groans, exasperated, and he wonders if he should just let it ring, while he's already leaning over to grab his cell from the nightstand.

"Seriously?" Tanja squeaks, and he can see where she's coming from, considering that he's still in her and almost squishing her tits in his attempt to get to the phone, but then Sam's voice is in his ear, shaky and almost _scared_, "Dean, can you -", and he's up immediately, looking for his pants.

Tanja is still on her back, staring at him with disbelief, and when he turns to leave, she throws a pillow at him and hisses "Asshole."

Dean opens the door and says "Yeah, whatever."

She was not that good a lay anyway.

 

**IV.**

For all the nights Dean has spent in bars, drinking, flirting, gambling, he isn't much of a dancer. And somehow he didn't peg Sam for one, either.

So even if their little prank war left Sam in an unusual good mood, it's kind of a surprise to see him join the group of people who are mingling on the dirty dance floor in this country bar in Richardson, Texas, they stumbled into. Even more so since it's fucking Square Dance. He's pretty good at it, too, stomping and twirling his partner around, her petticoat whirling, and Dean can't tear his gaze off him.

He's not the only one, though. The man leaning against the bar stool next to him hasn't touched his beer for hours, too busy admiring Sam's backside, and Dean just _knows_ that as soon as Sam leaves the dance floor, the guy will offer to buy him a drink.

The problem is that Sam is far too nice to say no, and in a second he'll be bent over a car with a cock up his ass. And Dean just. Can't. Stand. The idea of somebody else's hands on him tonight, and certainly not this in-the-closet hillbilly's paws. So he does the only thing he can think of: He hits on the guy himself. Marc seems willing enough, even if Dean suspects that it has more to do with the fact that Sam hasn't even looked their way for the last hour than with him really wanting Dean. Just as well.

The stalls in the men's restroom are too small, and they have to shuffle around a bit until Dean is pressed against the wall with his jeans around his ankles and Marc's finger in his ass. Dean knows that even with the locked door and a gun in reach, it's pretty damn risky to let a guy fuck you in the bathroom of a Texan country bar, but the cock that soon replaces the fingers is big enough for Dean to pretend it's Sam's, and he breathes against the plastic wall, imagining Sam's large hands on his hips and his wide mouth against his neck, his bare chest gleaming like it did when he came out of the shower in nothing but a towel a few days ago. Marc slams him against the wall once more, and Dean welcomes the pain, thinking how easily Sam could pin him against the surface and hold him still. His cock rubs against the plastic, dragging, and then he's coming, and the cry that escapes him is too loud and sounds too much like "Sammy" for Marc to ignore it.

Dean wants to crawl behind the toilet and hide, only Marc is still in him, frozen, and then the door slams open, hitting Marc in the shoulder, and there is Sam, gun ready.

"Dean, are you ...." he starts, before his eyes widen. "Oh."

"Oh", says Marc, dryly, and Dean closes his eyes for a moment and says: "What the hell are you doing here?"

Sam lowers the gun. "Well, you were calling my name", he explains, still confused, "I thought ...", and then his jaw drops when he understands. "Oh."

"Oh, indeed," Marc says, and he sounds slightly panicked now, as if he just realized that the guy he spent ogling all night just broke the door, and everybody who decides to walk in right now can see him bare-assed and fucking another guy.

He steps back hastily, his cock slipping out, and Dean can hear him dropping the condom, zipping up and leaving barely two seconds later. Dean doesn't move, despite his pants on the floor and the come cooling against his skin, thinking that maybe Sam will just turn around and leave if he stays like this for a while. Even if it means that he'll never get to see his brother again.

Then Sam says "Dean", far too close for his taste, breathing on his neck, and he should have known that he wouldn't have that kind of luck.

"Dean, I think we need to talk."

 

**V.**

Dean has slept with a few people in his life – the first one when he was barely 14. One of them was Cassie, the girl he thought he loved; another was a hunter named Nepomuk who liked to be tied to the bed and was killed by an incubus about a month after they went their separate ways.

He has fucked and sucked and rimmed, and all those things have been done to him more than once – but here, on his back on the sagging hotel bed in Janesville, Wisconsin, he thinks how all this time, he was actually waiting for this: Sam crouching over him, knees on each side of his legs, one hand on the bed-head for support, the other hand between his legs, spreading himself open with two long fingers.

"So," Sam pants, and his voice hitches when he adds another finger, "is it true what you told Michael? That you'd do anything for me?"

Dean moans, because how can Sam expect him to talk right now, and "Yes, yes, anything," he nods, not caring that Sam will tease him later for it, and squeezes the base of his cock in a desperate attempt not to come right now.

"So how about you fuck me?" Sam asks, and it sounds so urgent, so frantic. "Can you do that? Hard and fast?"

Dean growls and jerks his hips, and it seems to be enough of an answer for Sam, who crawls backwards and turns around until he's on his back, legs already raised to his chest, completely open, waiting for Dean to take what he wants.

And Dean rolls over and climbs between Sam's legs, pushing in slowly, with as much control as he can muster, and it's just as good as the first time they did this, or the second, or third – tight, warm, _home_ \- and Dean is pretty sure that there are other things he could say, like "Come on, faster" or "That's it, baby", but all he can think is "Sammy. Sammy. Samsamsam."

And maybe that should be embarrassing, but it really isn't, because Sam is whimpering under him and writhing in ecstasy, and when Dean reaches down for a kiss, he can taste the words falling from his brothers' lips when he comes: "Dean. Dean. Dean."

**The End**


End file.
